Presidental Courage
by broadwaybaby529
Summary: Part of a month long challenge between friends. Hermione has been reading this book for sixty years. It only makes sense that the epilogue finishes as her own story comes to an end. Rated M for later story content.
1. Chapter 1

_Prologue_

Hermione Granger sat out by the lake of Catalina Springs. The glass like surface of the water reminded her of a mirror, which shone clearly the wrinkles, the crevices and the indents that her face had accumulated over the years. There had been many years, by now.

She picked up the book she had placed on the ground when first arriving upon her small sanctuary in the tall grasses and smiled, fingering the pages that were as worn as her skin had become. The book had aged with her, in a sense, since she had bought it in a small shop on her 17th birthday.

And here she was, the epilogue of her life and the epilogue of the book, Presidential Courage, the Men Who Ran America.  The boys could never understand it. She wasn't American. Her family was English, on her father's side, Welsh and a bit of Spanish on her mother's, but not enough to count.

So they had teased her mercilessly over this book, no matter where they were, camping out in the woods in what should have been their seventh year, or her short lived marriage to Adrian Lynch, the famous Quiddich player, which resulted in Ronald finally begging her to come back to him, after realizing that the star vision wears off after a while, and that his life had been exciting enough, he just wanted to be with the person he truly loved. She had been hesitant, but Lynch, well, Adrian, she supposed she could call him now, had more muscles in his body than words in his head, and while she valued the physical attraction, she, too, needed to carry on a simple life, after the war had ended.

But the book had seen it all, Harry and Ginny's marriage, her pregnancy scare of the repeat seventh year, the one-semester teaching job she had held at Hogwarts, a place too filled with memories to ever return to, and here she was, finishing it for good.

These men, despite the fact that almost all of them were dead, and that they represented a country which had fought tooth and nail to break off from her own, well, they had been constant's in her life, her friends, her go to when the going got too tough.

If she thought about it, each chapter, for the book was long enough to envy Tolstoy's style, each president, represented a certain time in her life, perhaps represented was the wrong word. Witnessed would be more applicable. It only made sense, she thought, as she reared upon the last page of the book, a book she had been savoring for sixty years, that it was coming to an end.

Chapter 1: George Washington: Diligence

_ George Washington can be considered the hero of the American Revolution…._

Hermione buried her head into the book that sat on the desk. It was a great tome of a book, dusty from cover to cover, her being the first witness to its pages in at least fifty years. It was well written, but despite the aged color drawings and the curling letters of an imitation fairy-tale, she found herself unable to concentrate. There was a war, creeping on the back of the necks of each person who found themselves walking through the halls of Hogwarts, stumbling the cobblestones of Diagon Alley and praying to Merlin not to take their children, their husband, their friends.

She did not know, at the time, that 6th year would be her last. How could she? The inkling trickled down her spine like the tattoos that adorned Ron's older brothers, Charlie and Bill, but she didn't want to believe it.

"My great uncle wrote that book," she heard a voice say, against the chilly castled background of the mid-march Saturday afternoon. It was a voice she recognized, but did not expect.

"The last name is Alexander," she replied, "Your mother's side?" A sigh, for she had yet to turn her head and face the gentleman with which she spoke. They were hardly counterparts at this point in time. He had spent years testing her patience and she the same.

"The Snapes never did care for the analysis of Western Literature of the Romantic era," came the drawling reply. He sat before her, and while Professor Snape, for that was still his title at the time, had never been a particularly elated person, Hermione could see in his the dragging grey under his eyes and the wrinkles pulling his skin to the ground that the toll of the war was going to be the death of him. She feared, already, that it had claimed part of his soul.

"You fancy Blake?" she asked him, for while the title of the subject was exactly what Snape had referred to, Western Literature of the Romantic Era, the focus was on the William Blake school of thought. More monsters and more nightmares, she considered, perhaps she should start reading Sylvia Plath, since she was clearly a masochist in the literary world.

"You like the shadows?" He asked her, and she wondered how he managed to be larger than her, larger than life, even though they both sat at the same table, in the same chairs.

"My imagination hardly needs prompting," she replied, "I have enough excitement in my life." Neither of them commented on how the excitement was neither positive nor asked for. It was better unsaid.

"It's scary to get lost in thought," she added, as an after-consideration. "To me at least. I know at night… the dreams," she didn't need to continue and he did nothing to prompt her so. It was as well, he had been having those dreams for going on decades now, who was she to complain?

"The only reason people get lost in thought is because it is unfamiliar territory," Snape replied in that drawl of his. "If they thought more often then they might be used to it."

"Why did you come looking for me?" She asked him. The subject of William Blake had grown stale in seconds. It was clear that was not the reason for the meeting.

"I've come to tell you that I'm going to train you," he replied, his voice never changing tone. It would have been impossible to tell the difference between him reciting a grocery list or telling you that your cat had just been killed. His monotone was quiet. Silently she congratulated him on his ability to conceal emotions.

"Train me?" She asked, "Do I need training?"

"One of you three does," Professor Snape replied, "and since Potter is outside playing Quiddich and Weasley is trying to keep up, both oblivious to the nature of the impending horror, I would say you are the viable choice."

Hermione thought Snape was being a bit unfair to both boys, but she knew which battles pick and this wasn't one of them. And besides, in his Snape-like roundabout way, he had a point.

"Explain the nature of this training," she replied, nervous that she could trust him, for it seemed that no one could any one. She felt a chill, that one was for the fear, she thought.

"I will Sunday night, when you come to my office," he drawled. At the time she was not the Hermione who would have to fight to ignore the implications of being alone with an older man. She had, at the age of 17, yet to be awaken to the carnal pleasures of intimacy with men, or anyone. At that point in her life she was only a worker.

Sunday evening would roll around with stumbles, for Hermione. When she appeared at the entrance to the dungeon she was ten minutes early. Snape made no indication of his opinion on this, but she could tell he was pleased with her. She had a reputation uphold.

"Ms. Granger," he began, his voice as deep and cold as they dungeon they stood in. "Please, sit." She sat, at his approval she removed her cloak, and they remained that way for a moment, looking without speaking.

"There will come a time," Snape began, "When I will no longer be capable of brewing potions for the Order." She found that while she knew the words he was speaking were true she had difficulty wanting to believe them. That the war was so close, so desperate, made her nauseous, even at the thought of losing someone like Snape.

"I will be teaching you how to brew the Wolfsbane potion, healing potions and truth potions. As it stands you will carry on as my apprentice until the time comes." _For the war to start_ was the hanging clause. But neither of them said it.

"You many go," she picked up her things, "and Ms. Granger," she turned back to him, expecting the harshness she usually received in classes and was surprised to hear him utter two words, "Thank you."

It might have been the thank you that did it. While she had always been the star student, always been brilliant, she threw herself into this harder than she had ever thrown herself into her studies. She read every book the library had to offer, she sent away to friends of the Order for other books she could read, she borrowed from Snape's library, dissected potions only to put them together again.

And the impression she made on Snape was almost as satisfying as knowing she was helping the Order, helping the army. While they rarely spoke in conversational tones, using words only as indication as to when to add the dragon heart string or the unicorn blood, Hermione found herself trusting him undeniably. He was the mentor to her apprenticeship, and she knew that she was going to be decisive in the outcome of the war.

One Sunday night, perhaps a month after they had begun their nightly rituals of blending and mixing, he fixed the timer, sat her down and leaned against the desk.

"You have proven to be quite the apprentice, Miss Granger," he began with, "not that I had any doubt in my mind." He paused, and she could only wonder what he was to go on about, for they never did speak and he usually reserved his most condescending tones for when they were forced to communicate.

"They've come looking," he began, "and I can no longer be associated with the school that is run by their biggest enemy." She felt the color drain from her face. He would need to play double agent now, which meant it would be time for her to take the reins Snape had held for thirty years, with the knowledge she had gleamed in only a couple of weeks.

"I have faith that you will be able to do as I have instructed you," he began, "one a month you must send Lupin a vial, disguised as a hair product. You must constantly stay in touch with the members of the Order, you must be to them what I have been to them."

She nodded, and while she could feel her cheeks fill with stress, she knew she must not let herself cry in front of him. Snape leaving to help the Order was only the first of many sacrifices to come.

He walked over to her and took her in his arms. At first her body went rigid and them she fell into her, her face buried in the crook of his body. He kissed her forehead, the way a father does, and stroked her hair.

For a moment Snape could think about nothing but how unfair it was that this young girl was going to be so destroyed by the war. For a moment he wished he could make it all go away for her.

But the moment passed and her sobs stiffened into heavy breathing and he pulled away from her.

"be safe," she said, as a question. "Please?"

"I will do my best," he promised her. "As I hope you will do for me." She nodded. She would keep her promise to him.

_Diligence, even in the face of adversary._


	2. John Adams: Pride

Chapter Two: John Adams: Pride

**Chapter 2: **

**Disclaimer: ** I realize I didn't put this in the first chapter. Not mine. There, done. Now, STORY.

Hermione sighed, pulling her hair into a bun and pinning it with a spare quill. She had been at these ancient ruins texts for almost three hours now, and the small squiggly lines and dots, which once meant a language to her, were now blurring into meaningless jargon. She hadn't been outside in almost 72 hours.

She massaged her neck, and placed her quill into the book to keep her place, then looked at the clock. 11:11, she thought, slightly bitter. _I wish I could understand this text._

She felt her stomach grumble and realized she needed to eat. Pulling a small sweater over her camisole she grabbed her book, hoping that the new environment would help her mull over the text with a little more comprehension.

She had been staying at the Burrow for a little over a week now. Winter break had approached them quickly, and she hadn't been able to go home. Molly, of course, had welcomed her into the home, and placed her in Bill's old room, the attic of the house, since she needed to stay up the night, studying, always studying. It didn't matter that these texts were on loan from the Magical Department of Histories, or that the archivist had specifically asked for her, Hermione Granger, 6th year student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, to help them with the deciphering of their meanings. No, to the boys, and Ginny, it was just more studying. Look at Hermione; she's off studying again.

She neared the stairs and found her way to the dinner that Molly had wrapped and charmed for her. It was far too much food, but Hermione was grateful. Focusing on food and attempting to comprehend the book, she found she didn't hear the footsteps until the person behind her spoke.

"It gets to you, sometimes, doesn't it?" She recognized the voice of Percy Weasley, but to be honest, it seemed a little like he had grown a pair since his prefect days at school.

"What do you mean?" She asked. She had never been best friend with Percy; they were too much alike, too anal, too studious. Their friendship would have been built around intellect, but even there her voice was too liberal for his liking, too innovative.

"Percy," she greeted. "I thought everyone was asleep." He smiled, nodding.

"I used to think that too, when I lived here. Also up in my room studying or doing work or reading, Mum would leave the dinner out for me. And they would joke and tease me for caring so much."

"Is that what you meant?" She replied, "Did it get to you?" He nodded,

"It gets to everyone. I guess we just can't help our attraction to the intellect." When she eyed him he let out a genuine laugh. "I'm not coming on to you," he added. "I just thought I could help."

"You read Kadareesh?" She asked him? The language was the Latin of southern Africa, a dialect so distant from the modern world that it was no longer capable of being spoken aloud.

"That's just where your problem lies," Percy replied. "The text isn't in Kadareesh."

"Excuse me," she replied. "I know that because you think you're older you know what you're talking about, but I happen to have a very firm grasp of this language and I know what I'm doing."

"It's Opallian," he added, "but if you don't believe me keep doing what you're doing, since it's working out so well for you."

Hermione wasn't wrong. She tried to be humble about her intellect, but it was difficult, considering that the Ministry contacted her for help on books and she was known for being "the Brightest Witch of her Age." It was hard, sometimes, to not have that title go to her head.

But this she was sure of. She had been studying Kadareesh for three years now, and just started on the dialectic strand to which Percy had referred, Opallian, a derivative of the language spoken in the Micronesian isles, which was some thousand miles away from where she had pinpointed the ruin to originate. She _knew_ she was right. She _had _to be.

Another day went by and her work on the ruins had gotten nowhere but a raging headache. And, the few lines she could seem to translate were making no sense at all. She was a master at this language; it should have been easier than this, or at the very least, more hopeful.

But after another 14-hour day rolled by she realized she was taking the wrong approach. It didn't have to be that Percy was right, it was just clear that she wasn't.

She pulled out a very large textbook that had been shrunk to fit inside her suitcase. It was the size of a small coffee table and weighed close to as much as her bed. Opallian, she muttered to herself, scanning the index before landing on what she was looking for.

She flipped to the page and her stomach churned. The characters were very similar, almost identical, to the ones in the Kadareeshian language, only they had different meanings. She pulled aside the text she had been decoding and grimaced, cursing to herself. There was no doubt about it, Percy had been right and she had been wrong. She felt her over inflated ego crumble a bit. When it came to looks she had an overly realistic idea of herself, when one mentioned sports she discussed it from a tactical and historical perspective. But when she was on her turf, her over expansive breadth of knowledge, and was questioned, she felt her walls tumble.

When Shacklebolt called her to the stage and offered her an award for finally deciphering the ruins in which the Ministry's finest had not been able to understand she accepted it and then asked to speak a few words. He nodded, gracefully stepping aside and she began.

"I would like to thank the Ministry's for having this opportunity," Hermione started, "I would like to thank the Weasleys, for allowing me the use of their attic, and mostly, I would like to thank Percy Weasley, for helping me to grasp the concept that being smart means realizing that you do not know everything. Thank you."

_Proud, when appropriate, modest, when the country called for help. _


End file.
